writerish person and beautiful weirdo

Entries tagged with excerpt

Yeeeeah so I meant to post the other snippets but I got distracted by a random novella I suddenly HAD to write about a fragile little sugarpuss and his flirty dance instructor. Yeah I don't even know. It just had to be done. Anyway. I submitted it to DS so we'll see if they like it. If not, who knows?

Meanwhile um... I had news. Oh right. So they are tentatively interested in more Beings audiobooks, so Some Kind of Magic is up next. Possibly out in September I think. For anyone who doesn't follow me on Tumblr, all you really missed was me porning Wicklow and Rhoades, as usual, and some cutesy bits of fluff, like Zoe from Little Wolf meeting her mate. Um. hmm you would also have missed me talking briefly about Tulip, and about how Tulip's story (finished) now requires a story for Flor as well. So that is happening. I have a list of things to write, but my brain interrupted and ordered me to the dancing thing first, and it's best to just let my brain do what it wants in these situations.

ANYWAY. I can't remember what snippets were from where, so have a snippety/notes/commentfic type thing from Tumblr.

So. Someone asked about Nathaniel quieting Tim without words. And I mused on the subject. (all typos left as they originally were)

Hey! I said I would pass on the release date when I found it out, aaaaand then I forgot. I am such fail. I can't even tell you. Tsk.

JULY 7. IT'S JULY 7. THE RELEASE DATE IS JULY 7. (Oh right the poison. The poison for Kuzco. The poison chosen especially to kill Kuzco. Kuzco's poison.)

Sorry about that. However, I've been informed that pre-ordering is possible. Which is good, because Dreamspinner sent me about twenty sheets to sign to put in the paperback copies. Now I just have to actually sign them. IDK. If I were Rhoades, and I were signing a book, I would sign with something smart and classical and Greek. If I were Wicklow, I'd probably just slash an "X" and be done with it. (Yes, I make things too complicated. I should just sign my name. But where is the fun in that?) I signed A Boy and His Dragon as if I were Bertie autographing books. Why can't Rhoades sign some books?

Still with me? Sorry. Scattered thinking today. But um, yes, July 7 for the release date. July 12 for my Meet the Author thing on Goodreads (not nervous about that at all oh wait I am actually incredibly nervous and trying not to think about it.)

In other news, Dreamspinner has a new Author Arcade feature going up, in which you can access information about the author more easily, including links to social media and all that. I haven't filled out my profile yet (shocker) but I will. :)

I also submitted a novella-ish Being(s) in Love story a few weeks ago. So hopefully they will want that and soon you will get to read about the baking werewolf in love. Then I am finishing up getting Little Wolf ready for submission (which, okay I just want it done). This exciting!! Even if, somehow, it ended up at about 360 pages. (!!!) This is too many pages. I know this. It's a nightmare and yet they are so cute and precious to me. We will see.

Tim watched Nathaniel take another steadying breath, then quickly glanced away when Nathaniel opened his eyes again. Tim wondered if he knew how Tim had been studying him, because his voice was as warm as his scent. “May I touch you?”

Tim had to be hearing things wrong. He tugged at his ears. “What? You’re asking to touch me?” He recognized that Nathaniel was trying to respect his feelings but that wasn’t a request Tim could be expected to answer calmly. He licked his mouth. “Yeah okay, sure, why not?” He could do breezy, really. Breathless-breezy, tense with anticipation-breezy. “Knock yourself out, you beautiful weirdo.”

Nathaniel crossed the rest of the space and stopped in front of him. Then he reached out and let his palm rest on Tim’s neck. “Beautiful weirdo?” he echoed, almost tenderly, and Tim pulled in a quiet breath. Nathaniel brushed his hand up over Tim’s throat, his fingertips trailing over Tim’s skin before he took his hand away.

Coupon Code for Ideas of Sin (for the brave who are into pirateses and rough sex and 1600s religious debate and things) is LD78Q

Both good until January 6, because I like the sound of Twelfth Night. And don't forget the free ones. Freeeee! Have fun.

Meanwhile, people, so all I seem to want to do is write short stories about Wicklow and Rhoades and that is no fun for anyone since I don't even know if Dreamspinner wants them. (ah the nervewracking wait for a response) What should I do if they don't? Smashwords them? Amazon? Hmm I also kind of want to write a cracky alternate universe story with Tim and Nathaniel where Tim in a prince(ss) trapped in a very tall tower (until he escapes) and Nathaniel is the long suffering knight trying to help him/get laid.

Poor Nathaniel, he never gets laid. At least not by Tim.

I am really failing at short stories for the Christmas season. Hmm... maybe John and Rennet at Christmastime? Oh shit. I don't think anyone knows John and Rennet either. Well boo. I swear I've been writing. Just... I've been working on long things and short stories that don't really have a home. (yet) Sorry. Have an excerpt while I continue to plug away.

"That was quite a show," remarked a voice from the shadows, and Kazimir angled his head toward his audience. His head still ached, but he kept his chin up while the man came forward until his toes were on the edge of Kazimir's soft circle of light. His audience was a man of average height, handsome, though part of his face was hidden by an unfashionable growth of beard and a small mustache. Curls of brown fell into his face where they were not tucked behind his ears, and glasses hid his eye color, but his clothes were plain, a shirt and pants, with braces, or suspenders as Americans called them. He was American too, though his French accent was better. Kazimir had the impression of a direct gaze before the man glanced away again. His lips were full and pliant.

"At the theater tonight, or what just took place on my balcony?" Kazimir stared at him, waiting for the man to look at him again, wondering why he would look anywhere else with Kazimir in the room with him.

"That." The emphasis in the word was almost amusing. "What just took place. Though I also thought your performance tonight was incredible. Not everyone gets an opera written for them, not everyone deserves it."

He implied that Kazimir did, which Kazimir already knew. But Kazimir nodded after a moment, and the man took a drink from his own glass. It held something brown, with ice. The man swallowed with evident pleasure and then said nothing, continuing to keep his eyes from Kazimir.

"You should not capture a Firebird," Kazimir addressed the topic at hand, and watched soft lips open on what could have been a silent laugh. His glow was flattering to the man's cheekbones, the light olive tone to his cheeks.

"Should not?" The stranger moved and Kazimir got a hint of dark eyes narrowed in thought. "Was that act for his benefit then?"

"If not his then for the next creature he tries to buy." Kazimir shrugged and sighed loudly at the stillness from the man opposite him. "You have more to say? You think I was cruel? That he did not deserve rejection?"

The man considered him over the wire rim of his glasses, direct and indirect at once. Kazimir knew he was being studied, and yet could not catch the man's gaze. The strange, somewhat insolent human took another drink of his brown booze. "You didn't have much respect for his feelings."

Kazimir surprised himself by letting out a short, icy laugh "He should have had respect for mine."

"Were yours clear?" If possible, the man seemed equally amused, though Kazimir did not understand why he should be, unless he found Kazimir himself funny. The human could have been one of those men who feigned disgust at things like magic or the blended world that magical creatures lived in, where human morals and customs did not apply. He barely looked over thirty, but it was not only old men who regarded fairies and demons with hatred and loathing. Lately many seemed to, as if the problems of the world were to be laid at their door, as if beings of magic had been the ones destroying banks and dividing countries up into arbitrary pieces.

Kazimir drew himself up and curled one hand into a fist, two remaining pearls hard in his palm. "What responsibility is it of mine to make my feelings clear? My feelings are mine." His voice was clear, the little American would not argue. Kazimir kept on. "He was told no. It is not my fault he did not listen."

He let out a puff of air and wished for more vodka. It was a long time before he thought of speaking again, but when the American did not say a word, he chose to answer with silence, and so they stood. Then the American shifted forward again, coming further into Kazimir's light but stopping before Kazimir had to step back. Kazimir wondered if the man had seen him shudder away earlier, or if this human had simply been raised with better manners. He inclined his head, as though granting Kazimir the point, but did not admit his fault aloud.

Kazimir felt something, not altogether fear, slide down his back. He frowned and made his smile cold. "Human men in general do not give ground until forced to," he pronounced, bitter and unsurprised, and wondered if a mere glimpse of his neck would be enough to undo this one, or if more would be required.

The American stared to the side for a moment longer, then took another drink. He gave Kazimir a short look, then snorted and spoke in English. "Fucking true enough," he remarked, "we will defend to the last man salients of no value to avoid the appearance of retreat."

It was a confusing statement, one Kazimir was not entirely sure he translated correctly. Before he could ask, the American went on, growing warmer at the subject or from his liquor. "Not to say you have no value, or that you are a piece of land. Merely agreeing with you. It's difficult to let go. It can be difficult." He scowled down at his glass.

"You are drunk." Kazimir was neither amused or shocked, though he was not certain why he bothered commenting. His guests were currently swimming in gin.

"Usually," the American hummed a little, a piece from the opera tonight, "I usually am, when not working. May I ask you something?" He paused. "Did you not like the pearls? The gesture was beautifully executed, and I applauded, but outside of this apartment people are hungry."

"And the inhuman creature throws away pearls while the bread lines grow." Kazimir looked down to straighten his robe and when he raised his eyes, the American was looking right back at him. It took him too long to speak again. "Perhaps I prefer diamonds." He held the man's gaze even with the touch of electricity down his back and the ache in his bones. "Do you have diamonds?" he ducked his head to inhale greedily, and glanced up, an unrivalled courtesan. He swept a look over the American's clothes, noting the lack of starch in the shirt as if it had been worn a few times since its last cleaning. It might be the man's only dress shirt. Kazimir clucked his tongue pityingly and straightened. "I don't think you do," he sighed as if bored and waited. When insulted, some dogs licked your hand, others bit.

This dog tilted his head to one side. "You want diamonds? Common diamonds?" He seemed unwilling to admit the possibility that anyone would see a diamond as anything other than a shiny stone, though he returned the same sweeping look Kazimir had given him.

Kazimir felt himself go still. The human pretended not to see, though he must have.

"No, rubies surely. You must have been offered rubies too," the American went on, then wrinkled his nose and gave Kazimir another of his brief, searching looks. "Forgive me but as much as I can see you in jewels, your own natural beauty would render them redundant. You're handsome, yes, your jaw, your shoulders, your tapered waist and straight nose, but mostly… beautiful. Beautiful is the only word that suits you, or, I should say, it is the only word that comes to mind that wouldn't embarrass me."

"So you offer me no jewels at all?" Kazimir could have played coy, accepted the compliment and whatever money the man did have. He intended to, but the words came escaped him in a lilt, a graceful humming note when there should have been a blast of sound.

"Flowers. Those I would give you, if I had the money to, which I don't." The American nodded and took another drink. Kazimir could not tell if he meant it at all; the man looked at him in the same way as before, direct and then from the side, strangely shy. He was a schoolboy until he spoke.

"Roses?" Kazimir angled his head up and let out a pointed, light yawn. His heart would not slow. "Orchids?"

"Mere weeds!" the American scoffed, serious or playful, Kazimir could not determine, and did not allow himself to react though the American went on, "painted blooms in paper coffins, cut and wrapped and stuffed into a vase for display. No, not those. Not for you."

"What then?" Kazimir leaned back against a wrought-iron stand, velvety fern fronds tickling his bare skin. He put his wrist to his forehead like a film actress. The American's breath seemed to leave him in a rush, and when Kazimir looked, the man was watching him, earnestly now, if he had not been before.

"Wild flowers, the kind I have only ever seen in fields in Belgium. The kinds that grow on this continent no matter what is done to the land. Cascading colors so bright they're obscene. Blooms so beautiful they make you forget that even flowers fight for survival. Wild flowers, hardier than anything grown in a nursery. I'd make you a crown of them."

"Free flowers then?" Kazimir countered, his hand falling to his throat, though the weight of the pearls was long gone. The American threw his head back and laughed. It was too loud from drink, but still a rich, pleased sound that drew attention. A few people stopped at the doorway to peek at them.

"No jewels and no flowers will please you, Monsieur Firebird?" He was charming now suddenly, this American, leaving Kazimir to stare and wonder where his shyness had gone.

"I have never asked for them," he insisted, still with his hand at his throat, and the man dropped his crooked smile before Kazimir had even fully realized it was there.

"So you throw them away as though they are nothing?" He was gruff but quiet, and once again Kazimir could not tell if he was joking. He could not ask any more than he could ask for stories of these fields where wild flowers grew. He had traveled by train many years ago but had never stopped to look out at farmland turned grey with trenches and rain. He took a breath.

"That is no way to talk, Monsieur L'Américain, not if you wish to win a firebird." He was not drunk, but he sang it out, so sweetly it seemed a mockery.

The American frowned. "You said I should not--" he started, but was cut off by the arrival of Michel, who turned on the lights as he strode in. The American shut his eyes for a moment and swore, in the crude manner that seemed his habit. "Fuck."

Kazimir took a moment to study him in the light, from the shine in his brown curls to the dull scuff of his shoes. His trousers were recently ironed, but frayed, and a tarnished watch was ready to fall from his pocket. His lips were indeed yielding and pink, but held lines at the corners that spoke of pain. He was no schoolboy, but older than thirty, though not much. He was thin, and his skin had a tint of its own, as if good food and sun were all that were needed to make him beautiful, and perhaps a shave. He was not a picture of health. His skin was dotted with sweat despite the chill, like a human, a tipsy human without much money who had not eaten a solid meal in some time.

Getting back into writing can be difficult, so I tried to do a little something and ended up with two steampunk/not really steampunk stories. One of them is basically an alternate universe Will and Charlie. I'm not sure what to do with them. They aren't very good, at least, not from what I can tell, but I am kind of fond of them. It's very discouraging though, to see all that effort just sitting there in two random, blah stories. But hey, at least they got me kind of excited about werewolves again.

In other story type news, I put Ideas of Sin (oh dear, that old thing) up on Smashwords. If you are hankering for some French corsair with daddy issues captures bookish but fine English piece of ass, then that is where you should go. Also featuring 17th century stuff and religious debate and booty (pirate sex pun!) and very bad things and lots more sex. Six people have bought it so far, which tickles me to no end for some reason. SIX BRAVE SOULS. (I am so sorry. I wrote it years ago. But there's porn!)

Also, to the people who follow me on Tumblr or read these posts on Goodreads, you know I have no idea how I am supposed to act in these spaces, so you get this. You're welcome. ;)

Have some steampunk-ish valet-ness starring a slightly different Will and slightly different Charlie:

Aw, no one wanted commentfic. Sadness! I hope people at least dropped some cans off at their local donation bins? And not just the icky green beans from the back of the pantry and weird cans of spinach and such.

I hate green beans. Also mushy carrots.

Guys. Guys. Why did no one tell me Will and Charlie are adorable? No seriously. Why didn't you tell me? I was writing them all the time. I never looked at them from the outside. Oh my god. Especially once they get to their initial flirting phase.

Um, what was I gonna say here? Anyone know? I am having a vodka cran for the season. Anyway, I need to update my author bio and I don't know if I should include my Tumblr or not. Does anyone think anyone else needs a link to random fannish postings and porn that I reblog? (Smut Monday!!!! Drunken posts! Tons of Chris Evans in various stages of undress!!)

Meanwhile, should I write a little something tomorrow in between prepping my kitchen for the big day? And what? Arthur and Bertie? Will and Charlie? Future Nicky and Chris? New kids Tim and Nathaniel? (They are ready for their porn now. Too bad the story isn't.) Hmm. Questions questions.

Want a snippet of sumpin? Do I have anything cute right now? Want a piece of something I wrote for Dreamspinner's superhero anthology thing, only then I decided I didn't like it enough to submit it? *gasp* It's like my very own deleted scene!

I should explain. My friends and I mostly thought it would be really funny if a badass Batman type superhero had a nemesis/love interest who was less like Catwoman and more like... Wonder Kitten. So it was always pretty much crack.

Hello hello! I am a silly, ridiculous person so I am terribly amused and delighted that like three of you bought my little story. Delighted I say! I dance in your general direction.

In other news, I know this is bad timing with the East Coast of the US on hurricane lockdown, but I will be without free time all week so this is me, begging you to take some cans of food down to the food donation bins in your local grocery store or to look up your area food bank online (Second Harvest is a good term to Google for this) and give a few bucks. I believe in the good in you. :)

As a reward (if you want to call it that, you might change your mind after reading) here is a snippet of what I am currently working on. Tim and Nathaniel, two werewolves who are being difficult and slow and everything (I blame Tim) but I still want them to have their happy ending.

I have had way too much cranberry juice (without even any vodka in it, boo) and eaten like a bajillion (three) See's Marshmallow Easter Eggs. Yet somehow I am still in a good mood (and not puking my guts out).

I know right? I wish I had something deeper to add, but I don't, so, cracky Some Kind of Magic EXCERPT:

...

Ray scratched his nose, tried to clear his senses, but then moved when he couldn’t. He headed out, pushing past Ross without an apology and ignoring his offers of help.

He just needed out. Now. Fresh air. It had been too long since a hunt, or a trip beyond the city. And this case. Cal. Ray just needed clean air.

A dirty parking lot would have to do. He gulped in oxygen until his nostrils weren’t stinging and his blood wasn’t hot with the need to hunt, and then he turned, unsurprised to hear Cal approaching. He was dressed today, in a tight t-shirt and jeans. How considerate of him. He looked good, but it was nothing to how he smelled, and he was studying Ray so carefully that Ray wanted to ask what he looked like to Cal, if he shined.

“So Penn looked it up in the car, and she says there’s a werewolf who lives in the woods outside of town that this guy tried to beat up in a biker bar a few months ago.”

He didn’t seem to be reacting any differently than he always did to Ray’s presence, so Ray nodded slowly, returning to the present. “The case was pending.” He paid attention to werewolf cases, rare as they were. This one had been a simple assault charge, or not so simple, as the charge had been against the human.

“So…” Cal shifted, came closer, bright and immediately calming with his echoes of cottoncandybubblegum. Childhood pleasure in what was in front of him. Need. No fear.

Why him? Ray almost asked himself again, but couldn’t when the funhouse, carnival midway scent of Cal was so near and dear to him. He was probably staring, mooning, but for once Cal didn’t seem to notice.

“Maybe it’s not related, but she says you have to check it out.” Cal shifted position again, staring out at the cars and the road and not Ray. They weren’t touching, but when Ray glanced down he could see his shoes getting covered in glitter. Cal abruptly, finally looked at him again, reading something in Ray’s face that made him sigh.

“What?” Ray wondered. It was as close as he could get to asking the rest, what Cal saw when he looked at him. There was too much hope in his voice as it was. Cal sighed again, then shook his head.

“So I was thinking…” Cal paused, rolling one hand and trying to look more beautiful, or persuasive, Ray wasn’t sure, but he managed to do both. “…Road trip?” he asked finally, then hopped when Ray lifted one brow. It wasn’t a no and they both knew it. “Sweet! I call shotgun!”

Damn Ray wanted to smile. He had to fight to sound stern, to wonder where his dark mood had gone.

“No way. You take the back again.” Then he stopped, looking past the yellow tape and over at poor Benedict, who still looked queasy, then to Penn, who was watching them from the car. He looked back into green and gold and chocolate eyes. Shiny. Yes, Cal was shiny to him. “You sure you want to ride in a car with a savage, murderous werewolf, Petunia?”

Cal wrinkled his nose. It was irritatingly cute.

“You want to ride in a car with a hyper, weak, no good half-fairy, Fifi?” he inquired smoothly, then danced toward the car with a crazy pirouette.

Ray grinned after him, faintly.

“You forgot slutty,” he shouted.

“Please!” Cal didn’t even bother to turn back to him. “Pixies are way sluttier. Besides, half-fairy, remember?”